Chương 7: Day 2

Crimson stands frozen, eyes locked on the empty stretch of road beyond the school gates, reeling. Just said goodbye to Willow. Just uncovered the unthinkable, her father? The mastermind behind the hunters. And just watched his entire world implode in real time without recognising him. Back in the locker room, he moves like a ghost. Bag slips from his grip, thuds at his feet. Gloves tumble out, forgotten.

He leans hard against the metal lockers, back pressed flat, gaze hollow, like someone pulled the plug on reality. Then Churro peeks around the corner.

"You make it right with Willow?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're good, right?" Churro grins, until he sees Crimson's face. The silence says everything.

"No. Remember those hunters? The ones hunting us? Her dad, Willow's dad, he's their leader." Crimson slams his locker shut, the bang echoing like a gunshot.

"He shot me. With a crossbow. And I kissed his daughter!"

"Wait, Willow's dad? No way. That guy put a bolt through your chest!"

"YES! HER DAD! Oh God, what the hell do I even do now?" The numbness shatters. Panic surges. His breath comes fast, wild.

"Whoa, calm down. Did he recognize you? Does she know who he really is?"

"I… don't think so…"

"Okay. Okay, breathe. We'll figure this out. But right now? Focus on lacrosse. On practice. Stay sharp. Crimson!" Churro snaps his fingers, then slams the locker door shut, like sealing a vault.

On the lacrosse field, bodies crash together like thunder, hard hits, sharper instincts. Coach Moon hurls the ball to Greenberg, the first in line. But before he can react, Larch is on him, brutal, fast, slamming his stick down on Greenberg's gloves, knocking the ball loose in a flash.

"Nice hit, Larch. Greenberg, that was embarrassing. Lap. Now." Greenberg sprints off as the next player charges in. A second later, he's flat on the turf with a bone-jarring thud. Meanwhile, Crimson zones out, lost in a storm of thoughts, unaware the team's already fallen back behind him.

"Croft! Move!" He jerks awake, right at the front. The ball arcs toward him. He drives forward, aiming for the net, when Larch explodes into action, raining down slap checks like hammer strikes.

"Ease up on the slashing, Larch!" The ball flies free. Crimson flinches, clutching his forearm where the blow landed hard, between glove and elbow pad, raw and stinging.

"Still think you deserve first line, Croft?" Larch taunts, smirking. Crimson clenches his jaw, eyes snapping up, brown irises blazing into bright, unnatural yellow.

"Croft, my dead grandmother could move faster than that, and she's actually dead! Can you beat a corpse in a footrace, Croft?"

"Yes, Coach!"

"Then do it again, now!" The whistle shrieks. Crimson surges forward, catching the pass mid-stride. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Churro steps away from the huddle, eyes locking onto Crimson, something's different. His speed. His fluid, almost inhuman agility. Larch, clueless, swings wide for a cross-check, stick levelled horizontally, just as Crimson rockets toward him like a missile.

They collide, head-on, violent, primal, like two rams at war. Both go down. Larch screams as he hits the ground, the sickening pop of a dislocated shoulder slicing through the air. Coach winces. While the team rushes to Larch, Churro bolts to Crimson.

"You good?" Crimson stays down, head low, face hidden beneath the helmet.

"Crimson?" Slowly, he lifts his head, revealing jagged, fang-like teeth jutting from his lower jaw.

"It's happening," he whispers, voice strained.

"I can't stop it. It's happening." Churro grabs his shoulder pads, hauling him up.

"Let's go, now. Before someone sees. Move, move!" He drags Crimson off the field, toward the lockers, neither noticing the shadowed figure watching from the side-lines... Autzee Tale.

The locker room door slams open, darkness swallowing the space as Churro half-drags, half-carries a shuddering Crimson inside.

"Back off!" he snarls, shoving his friend away like dead weight.

"I'm just trying to help..."

"Stay. Away." Crimson growls, voice into something guttural and inhuman, head jerking sideways like a predator scenting blood. Churro stumbles back, pulse hammering. The sound ripping from Crimson's throat isn't human, it's raw, feral, wrong. His eyes, yellow, blazing with fury, lock onto Churro like he's prey. Then Crimson doubles over, gasping, fingers clawing at his gloves. With a violent tug, they come free, revealing jagged, sharpened talons where nails should be.

Churro scrambles backward, heel catching the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Metal clangs, sharp, sudden. Crimson snaps upright. But it's not him anymore. Not behind those glowing eyes. Not under that helmet. He lunges. A blur of speed, over the bench, launching forward just as Churro yanks the extinguisher free and unleashes a blast of CO₂. White fog explodes, engulfing Crimson, who throws up clawed hands in defence, snarling into the icy cloud.

Churro darts around the next row, back pressed to cold metal, breath ragged. Waiting.

"…Churro?" A whisper. Human again. He peeks out. Crimson is on the floor, helmet off, chest heaving, face slick with sweat, back to himself.

"What… what happened?"

"You tried to kill me," Churro spits, dropping the extinguisher with a clang.

"Like I warned you. Anger. Adrenaline. Rising pulse. They're all triggers." His hands still tremble not just from fear, but rage.

"But that's lacrosse," Crimson argues, voice weak.

"It's brutal. You know that."

"It gets a lot more brutal when you rip someone's throat out," Churro fires back.

"You're not playing Saturday. You need to walk away."

"I'm first line."

"Not anymore."

Crimson crashes into the Croft house, drained, body and soul, flinging his backpack aside and collapsing face-first onto his bed. The door creaks open. Aqua Croft stands there, coat on, keys in hand.

"Long shift tonight," she says, "but I'm skipping it. Going to your first game."

"Mom, no, you can't."

"I can. One night off won't sink us. Not yet. But what the hell's going on with you? Your eyes, like you've been running from ghosts." Crimson lifts his head, startled.

"It's nothing. Just… stressed."

"Just stressed? That's all? You're not on something, are you?"

"Right now?"

"What do you mean right now? Have you ever?"

"Have you?" A question that lands like a punch. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't answer. Just says, "Sleep. Now." And with that, she's gone. Alone again, Crimson drags himself up and jabs the mouse. The screen flickers to life, and instantly, a chat window from Churro flashes open. He clicks accept. His friend's face fills the frame.

"What'd you find?"

"It's bad. Larch, separated shoulder. Dude's an idiot. Not your fault."

"Will he play?"

"They're not sure. But now? All eyes are on you for Saturday." Churro hesitates. Leans closer to the camera, squinting. Something's caught his attention, off-screen. In Crimson's room.

"What?" Crimson snaps, just as a text box pops up. Churro types...

"It looks like..." The cursor spins. The screen freezes. Churro's image locks mid-blink.

"What?!" Crimson growls. Then, finally, the message completes...

"It looks like someone's behind you." His breath stops. He doesn't move. Doesn't turn. Slowly, his gaze drifts to the tiny preview in the corner of the screen, his own reflection. Wide eyes. Pale face. And behind him, something. A shadow. A shape. Standing in the dark. He resizes the window, bigger. Bigger. Until the reflection fills the screen. There it is. Clear now. Someone's in the room. He whips around, just as Autzee lunges, yanking him from the desk, sending the laptop crashing down.

Slammed face-first into the wall, Crimson gasps.

"I saw you on the field."

"Autzee... what the hell..."

"You shifted. In front of them. If they discover what you are, they'll uncover me. All of us. Then it's not just hunters hunting. It's the whole world. And they won't care." Autzee presses close, voice a razor at his ear.

"Play that game Saturday…" He pauses. Dead silence.

"I'll kill you myself."